


Metamorphosis

by aceofhearts61



Category: Luther (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-14 18:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3420878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofhearts61/pseuds/aceofhearts61
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin Ripley lives. Everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just recently discovered, binge-watched, and finished this fucking brilliant show. Had to fix Ripley's death because oh, my God, it's just not fair. 
> 
> As per my usual, there's not going to be any romantic-sexual relationships in this fic, or at least none of importance. May or may not be sexy times on screen. I really have no idea where this is going or for how long.

Justin’s awake when Luther finally reaches the alley. He can hear him running, calling Justin’s name. Justin wants to answer, just to save Luther moments of panic, but he doesn’t want to risk making the situation worse for himself. He lies prone on the ground, the pavement cool and wet beneath him, staring at the night sky. The pain feels like a hot, glowing coal in his chest but it’s contained there, in an area about as big as his fist. He’s doing his best to keep his breathing shallow, because he knows as soon as he jostles his torso, the pain pocket’s going to burst.

“Justin! JUSTIN!” Luther shouts, dropping into a crouch at Justin’s side a few seconds later. His face comes into focus, as Justin blinks slowly up at him. “My God, Justin, talk to me.”

Luther presses his fingers to the side of Justin’s neck, looking for a pulse, and the heat of his skin is intense. Justin realizes that’s he’s cold and in shock, and on cue, his left leg starts shaking. Luther spreads Justin’s coat and jacket wide open to assess the damage. His white shirt has a large red stain, and his tie is flecked with blood.

Marwood shot him with his sidearm, some kind of semi-automatic pistol. The wound missed Justin’s heart by mere inches, blown in the left side of his upper chest.

“Thank God, you’re alive,” Luther says, and Justin can hear and see him calm down immediately. The older man touches Justin’s face, looks into his eyes. “Justin, can you hear me? Say something. Anything, please.”

Justin swallows, relieved that he doesn’t taste blood. He struggles to find his voice, closing his eyes as the pain starts to burn deeper in his chest.

“No, no, no, hey! Justin. Open your eyes. You can’t go to sleep here.”

He opens his eyes, never one to disobey an order from John Luther if he can help it. Luther smiles at him, and it makes Justin think that if he’s dying, he’s beyond glad that he’s not alone. His eyes sting without warning, and he has to try his hardest not to start crying like he’s eight years old and skinned his knee. He can’t have John Luther seeing him cry, not even like this.

“You’re going to be all right, Justin,” Luther says, rubbing his thumb across Justin’s cheek and maintaining eye contact. “Listen, you’re going to be all right. You’re going to make it, or so help me, I’ll come after you. Hear?”

Justin manages to nod.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, mate, I don’t know what I was thinking. I shouldn’t have told you to go after him.”

Justin wants to protest—they couldn’t just let Marwood get away without trying to stop him, could they?—but he’s smart enough to know this isn’t the time.

Luther takes off his coat and covers Justin with it. It smells like the bigger man, and that’s comforting. Luther sits down on the ground and carefully moves Justin’s head into the cradle of his folded legs. He finds Justin’s left hand under the coat and holds onto it, touching Justin’s face with his other hand.

“Stay with me,” he says, soft and quiet. “Stay with me until the ambulance gets here. All right?”

The shock’s wearing off, and Justin’s body is now bathed in cold sweat, exponentially more tired than it was five minutes ago. His eyes droop almost closed, and he fights to keep them open, to stay focused on Luther’s face above him and the stars in the black sky beyond.

“Justin,” Luther says. “Stay awake, mate. Please. Stay awake.”

He’s trying. Giving it all he’s got. He’s not afraid of dying, he just doesn’t want to hurt his boss.

“I was trying to tell you earlier, it’s time you get promoted.” Luther chuckles a little in the back of his throat, but it sounds sad.

The sound of sirens crystallizes in the air. Justin almost smiles. He’s so used to thinking that everything’ll be all right, now that the sirens are here. They’re not alone. Help’s coming.

“Justin,” Luther says again, his voice hoarser now. His face is blurring out of focus. Everything’s fading away. “I meant it, what I said earlier. I love you. Don’t go.”

Justin loves him too. He didn’t say anything in the morning because he was too surprised. He never would’ve thought he’d be someone John Luther loved. It’s almost better than being someone John Luther leads.

  

* * *

 

“Now, what?” Alice says, on the bridge. That mischievous smile and her green eyes full of possibilities that suddenly feel tangible.

Luther thinks of the post cards lining his mantel and smiles back.

They turn and start to walk east, shoulder to shoulder. Not for the first time, Luther wonders if Alice wants to add sex to their friendship, or if she just enjoys the flirtation. He doesn’t believe she’s after romance—he can’t imagine her having real romantic feelings for anyone—and that’s a relief, because he’s convinced they work better as friends. Stable romantic relationships are part of that normalcy he wants to want, and for the first time in his life, he’s facing the likelihood that he doesn’t actually want them in the long run. Or that he’s not cut out for them. It’s hard to tell, after he spent most of his adult life with the same woman. He can’t imagine having sex with Alice, not really, and he best take care not to marry her, considering what happened to her first husband. But he likes having her around. He doesn’t even want to analyze what that means. He’s just going to enjoy it.

“I have to write my resignation letter,” he says, somewhere down the street.

Alice is so pleased, she looks sunny. “Yes.”

“And I have to see to Justin.”

Some of the light recedes.

Luther turns to look at her, as they stop on a corner. “What?”

She peers at him and doesn’t answer for a beat. “I know how much you love your puppy, John, but don’t get suckered into staying on the job out of guilt or pity.”

“I won’t,” Luther says, after a moment. “If I don’t leave now, I never will, and I know that. But he’s my mate, and he’s hurt because of me. I just have to make sure he’ll be all right.”

“Well,” says Alice, after a minute, “while you’re tying up your loose ends, I’ll decide where we’re going. Do you want me to pack for you?”

Luther grins a bit. “I don’t know that I have anything to pack. Not if you’re going to insist on me leaving my copper clothes behind.”

“I’ll see what I can salvage.”

He hails a cab, because Alice’s car is still in the midst of a crowd of police, and they get in together. She gives the cabbie her address—or the address of whoever’s flat she hijacked, anyway. They each look out their own window for a while, until Luther turns his head toward her.

“Alice,” he says.

“What?” she says, looking at him.

“Thank you.” 

And her lips curl slowly into a smile. He’s thanking her for a lot, for everything, and she knows just what he means.

 

* * *

 

When Justin wakes up, Luther’s sitting in a chair against the wall to the right of his bed.

“Hey, mate,” Luther says. “How you feelin’?”

Justin rubs his eyes with both hands. “’m fine,” he says. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long.”

“What time’s it?”

“Just after five in the afternoon. Do you remember what happened?”

Justin pauses, looking at the ceiling. “Marwood. He shot me in the alley.”

“That’s right. We got him, Justin. Alive. He’s going to pay for what he did to you and all those other people.”

Justin looks at Luther. “Do you know anything? Did the doctors tell you anything about me, I mean?”

“Yeah, they, uh—they said you’re not quite out of the woods yet, but they expect you to pull through. You were in surgery for a while, and surviving that was the biggest hurdle. Now, they just have to make sure you heal up properly.” Luther’s smile is one of encouragement. “I know you will.”

Justin takes a breath. “I feel drugged,” he says.

“Yeah, well, they want to make sure you’re comfortable,” says Luther. “You are, aren’t you?”

“As much as I can be, I guess.”

“Good.”

They’re quiet together for a minute or two, listening to the monitors hooked up to Justin. He steals a long look at the older man, when Luther’s focused on some spot of the floor. His boss looks worn out, like he’s run the race and won but won’t be doing it again. Looks like he could sleep for days, then not leave his bed or his flat for a week after that. He’s thinking, and he doesn’t look happy. It occurs to Justin how rarely John Luther’s looked happy in the three years they’ve worked together.

“There’s some things I have to tell you,” Luther says, eyes finally rising to meet Justin’s. “Maybe I should wait until you’re better, but I don’t want all this to move forward without you knowing.”

Justin can’t help but frown a little, trepidation brewing in his belly. “What things?”

Luther leans forward, elbows on his knees and hands laced together, and looks down again. He pauses. “I’m leavin.”

“What do you mean?” Justin says, after a moment. He immediately imagines Erin Gray and George Stark bringing charges against Luther, having him kicked off the force, sending him to trial. He would be angry, if he weren’t up to his eyes in morphine and drained of energy.

“I’m retiring,” says Luther. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long while, and after this case with Marwood, I’m pretty sure it’s the right time. I’ve been meaning to tell you, we just—we’ve had too many distractions lately. But I want you to know before I hand my letter in to Schenk. Not least of all because I’m recommending you as my replacement.”

Justin’s mind swims with the news, its implications, questions that swirl around too fast and thick for him to hold onto any of them. He’s relieved that Luther isn’t going to be burned at the stake on false charges, but he can’t help the sinking sensation of disappointment. He thought he’d spend years more working with or around Luther. He hasn’t had enough. He doesn’t even care about the promotion—he’d rather stay a DS another five years if it means Luther is his DCI.

“What are you going to do?” he says, because it’s a less pitiful question than _why_.

“Travel,” says Luther. “I don’t know where I’m going or how long I’ll be there, but I know I’m leaving the country. To be honest, Alice is in charge of it all, and that’s fine by me.”

“Alice?” It takes Justin a moment to realize who Luther’s referring to. “You don’t mean Alice Morgan?”

Luther looks at him, not the least bit guilty. He nods. “If it wasn’t for her, I’d be in a world of trouble.”

He knows it’s petty and ridiculous, but Justin feels like a kid who got passed over for his school team. Like Luther’s chosen Alice the psychopathic murderer over him. He should feel betrayed and angry that after everything he’s done for John Luther, the man’s abandoning him to go on holiday with Alice Morgan, of all people. But instead, he’s just sad. He half-wonders if this is his fault, if Luther doesn’t trust him as much as before because Justin was talking to Erin and Stark. He knows it’s silly to think for even a minute that Luther’s retirement is about punishing him or about him at all, but he still feels like maybe if he’d done something different.....

“Justin,” Luther says.

Justin looks over at him again.

Luther stands up and moves to the bed. “Listen, I know this is sudden, and it’s a lot to process, with everything going on. I don’t even want you thinking about it until you’re on your feet again. But I am going to recommend you and after this whole mess, I’m pretty sure Schenk’s going to welcome you as the new chief inspector with open arms. Unless you don’t want the job, but I can’t imagine why that’d be the case.”

Justin’s staring down at the blanket covering his legs, trying hard not to let his emotions get the best of him. He’ll blame it on the drugs and the gunshot wound, but right now, all he wants is to grab Luther and ask him to stay. He can’t think of anything else to say—but it isn’t his place to request something like that.

“Hey,” Luther says, and he’s got that gentle smile on his face that gives him away for the benevolent man he is.

Justin looks him in the eye because it would be disrespectful not to. But it’s hard. His chest is tight, like he could cry, and he feels stupid for it.

“Everything’s going to work out for the best. Promise.” Luther reaches down and squeezes Justin’s forearm on the bed, his hand big and warm and strong. “I’m not going to disappear forever, you know. Alice’ll get bored of me sooner or later.”

Justin swallows in lieu of a smile. “Tell her if anything happens to you, she’ll have me to answer to.”

Luther does smile. “I will.”

He lets go of Justin and turns to leave, stopping in the door when he’s halfway out. He looks over his shoulder and says, “I’m not leaving right away. I want to make sure you’re in the clear before I do, so—I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some rest.” 

Justin gives him a short nod, and Luther’s gone.

Nobody sees Justin’s face crumple, tears rolling swift and silent down his cheeks.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two years after I started this fic and I'm finally updating it! Hopefully, it won't take me nearly that long to write chapter 3!

A year after Marwood shoots Justin Ripley in that alleyway, a year after John Luther resigns from the police force, eight months after Justin Ripley returns to work full-time as DI in the Serious and Serials Unit, somebody slips a card into his mailbox. It’s a small, folded card in a white envelope, and the cover has a colorful illustrated pattern of dogs, bones, and balls on a pastel yellow background. Inside, the card reads:

**Puppy,**

**Meet me at 69 Colebrooke Row.**

**Saturday evening. 9 o’clock.**

**Come alone.**

**-** **Guess Who**

He finds it on Monday afternoon, when he comes home from work. He tosses it on his small, square dining table and checks his smart phone for any sign of Luther. Nothing. Not an email or a text or a missed call.

Before he left the country, Luther promised Ripley that he’d write or call or something, but of course, he never did. A couple months after Ripley returned to work, Schenk casually mentioned in private that he’d received an email from Luther asking how the new DI was faring. About as well as a good pupil of John Luther’s can be expected to fare, Schenk had replied. Ripley thought long and hard about emailing Luther after that, armed with the proper address, but ultimately decided to leave it alone. He reasoned with himself that if the man wanted to talk to Ripley, he would make use of the various phone numbers, email addresses, and home address that Ripley had provided him on their last meeting. Luther was probably having the time of his life in some exotic part of the world with a beautiful woman; the last thing he needed was some pathetic message from his ex-colleague about policing London.

Ripley thinks about Luther every day. He wonders how Luther would work each new case that arrives on the unit’s doorstep, wonders if he’s living up to Luther’s legacy and standard or if he’s constantly three steps behind where his old boss would be at any given point in the process. Ripley’s still not used to working without him, to being the one in charge of sergeants instead of the one looking to Luther for leadership. He supposes he’ll get used to his position in time, and now that he’s had it a little while, he knows he was ready for it. He just misses Luther. That’s all.

The card doesn’t ring Ripley’s alarm bells, but the nickname “puppy” nags at him. He doesn’t know why. He can’t remember anyone calling him that, aside from Erin Grey’s frequent characterization of him as Luther’s adoring dog. But no way did the card come from her. He hasn’t heard from her since before he got shot. She never did show her face again, probably out of embarrassment about dragging him through all that mess with Stark. She’s still DCI of Internal Affairs, he knows that.

He goes into the kitchen and gets himself a beer from the fridge, popping the bottle cap off with an opener and leaving it on the counter. Through the window in the wall separating kitchen from living room, he can see several files in manila folders covering most of the coffee table, one corner of an old magazine peeking out from underneath them. He’s been studying Luther’s old cases, mostly the ones he worked under Rose Teller before Ripley made sergeant. He tells himself it’s in the name of learning, but the truth is, reading the reports helps him miss John less. If it does teach him something, so much the better.

Ripley nurses his beer in silence for a bit, standing in the kitchen and eyeing the television set in the living room and his personal computer on the sofa. He doesn’t want to think about dinner yet. He plans to cook tonight—he’s already ordered takeaway and eaten out enough times for the week—and for a moment, the thought of cooking for one and eating alone again at his own table fills him with loneliness. He shakes it off, like he always does.

He looks at the anonymous card again, at the dog pattern on the cover and the weird note on the inside. He figures he’ll go and meet anonymous, though it could be dangerous. Maybe he’ll get lucky and find a secret admirer waiting for him.

* * *

 

69 Colebrooke Row is a bar with no name, literally. From the outside, it doesn’t look like much, marked only with a lantern on a quiet back road in Islington. Justin’s not even sure he has the right place, at first. He half-expects to find the door locked or the place empty when he reaches for the door handle, but it’s open.

He stops in his tracks when she sees her, just the back of her head at first—but a head he would know anywhere. Red hair. Dark and hypnotic. The color of fresh blood. She has it cut into a short bob now, but it’s her, her hair and her head unmistakably. She turns that head to look at him, as if she senses he’s there. Her eyes land on him and she smiles that sly, feline grin from across the room.

Alice Morgan. Alice bloody Morgan. A ghost from murder’s past.

He has no idea what he’s going to say to her, but after a long moment, he crosses the distance between them and slides into the empty side of her booth.

“You came,” she says, obviously pleased. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“What is this?” says Justin. “How do you know where I live? What are you doing here?”

Alice sips from her glass—she’s drinking white wine—and puts it down on the table, making him wait. “I’m here because we need to talk, obviously. Don’t fret about me knowing your address, I promise I won’t kill you.”

“You’re a fugitive. Do y’know that? I should arrest you.”

“But you won’t. Not now and not later.”

“Oh, really? And why’s that?”

“Because he wouldn’t like it,” Alice says. “And you so hate to upset him.”

Justin knows immediately who she’s talking about, but he has a hard time believing that she’s here on John Luther’s behalf. He gulps, blinking at her and feeling off kilter.

Her eyes gleam, a bluish green that reminds him of the ocean in warmer places that he’s only seen on film. She lays her hands flat on the tabletop, palms down, and grows only a bit more serious. “I’m going to tell you everything I came here to say, and after I’m finished, you can do what you like. Don’t interrupt me.”

Justin doesn’t answer, watching her and wishing like hell the waiter would come so he could order a drink.

Alice takes her hands back from the table and relaxes into her seat. “Our mutual friend has decided, after a very satisfying and extensive holiday, to return to London. For the record, I tried to convince him to stay away, and I still don’t think coming back here is a good idea. But he made up his mind, so now he’s back. Under no circumstances will he be returning to his old work, and I warn you, Mr. Ripley: should you persuade him to come out of retirement, you will not like the consequences I have in store for you.”

She pauses, and Justin just looks at her, fully appreciating that she isn’t bluffing.  

“He agreed to let me see you first because he trusts me,” says Alice. “I hope you understand what that means.”

It means that despite his duty as a police officer, his sense of morality, and his better judgment, Justin isn’t going to arrest her or report her. God help him.

Alice sips on her wine again, her red lipstick never leaving a smudge on the glass. “I’ve never understood what he sees in you, and I’m sure I never will, although I do give you credit for your loyalty to him. All you need to know about where you and I stand is this: I care about him, and he cares about you, which means I will never harm you as long you’re in his good graces and will in fact act as your ally, should you ever require my services. I have no objections to his relationship with you. My only reservation is the temptation you pose, the temptation to get sucked back into his old toxic life. I want your word that you won’t encourage him to go backwards, that you’ll keep your work and your relationship with him completely and utterly separate.”

Justin’s quiet for a moment, unsure if she wants him to respond now. He takes a chance and says, “Fine. You have my word.”

“Good,” Alice replies. “There’s just one more thing, Mr. Ripley.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t hurt him.”

Justin frowns, nearly offended. “Hurt him? How and why would I hurt him?”

Alice looks at him as if she knows something he doesn’t, but that isn’t much different than how she always looks.

“He cares about you a great deal,” she says. “Don’t disappoint him. If you can help it.”

Justin pauses again, baffled and still a bit indignant that Alice Morgan, murdering psychopath, is telling him not to hurt someone. And not just someone but John. “I don’t have any intention of disappointing him. I never do,” he says. “Are you finished?”

“Yes, I believe I am.” Alice picks up her glass again to drink.

As if on cue, a waiter approaches their table and asks Justin if he wants anything. Justin orders a whiskey, thinking how he’s going to end the night drunk, though not anywhere near Alice Morgan.

“Where is he?” he says.

“Home,” says Alice.

“And where’s that?”

“I’ll let him tell you. He’ll pay you a visit when he’s ready. Soon.”

“Are you living with him, then?”

“I am,” she says. “Separate bedrooms.”

Justin doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t know if he assumed they were lovers or if he didn’t read that far into the situation at all. He realizes that he can believe Luther would be Alice’s lover, but he can’t imagine her with anybody, probably because she’s the human equivalent of a female praying mantis that kills and eats her mates after sex.

The waiter delivers his whiskey, and Justin drinks half of it right away.

Alice smirks a little.

“Have you been with him all along?” he says.

“Yes,” Alice replies. “From Munich to Mexico.”

That gives Justin a strange sense of comfort that takes him by surprise. He’d imagined John alone or with anonymous women, but the man was surely better off with a friend—even one such as Alice.

He catches her giving him a jarring look, a kind of suggestive curiosity.

“Are you single?” she says.

Justin doesn’t answer right away. “Yeah,” he says and doesn’t tell her he won’t go on a date with her, because he can sense that’s not the reason she asked the question.

Alice sips on her wine, then looks down into it, her eyelids shimmering in the light. “You’ve been single a long time, haven’t you?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

She looks at him again, and he feels like she’s dissecting him in a science lab. It makes him squirm.

“Are you attracted to men?” she says.

“That’s definitely none of your business,” says Justin.

She smiles her coy smile. “Are you always this much fun, Mr. Ripley?”

He knows it’s a rhetorical question.

* * *

 

Two weekends later, Justin finds himself in Archway on Saturday morning, on a quiet, ordinary street. He’s nervous as he parks the car and checks the address again, which he wrote down on a notepad after Alice Morgan texted it to him. Why he’s communicating with her instead of Luther, he doesn’t know, but he hasn’t questioned it. Alice put her number in his phone when they met at the bar and informed him that she would be in touch as soon as John was ready to see him.

Here he is. Crossing the street and looking both ways, rubbing his hands on his thighs. It isn’t a flat but a house that John and Alice have got themselves: a two story terrace. Justin climbs the steps and stands in front of the door for a long moment, before he knocks.

The door opens after half a minute, and there he is: John Luther, alive and well.

“Justin,” he says, with a big smile on his face.

And Justin doesn’t say anything at all, John’s name trapped in his throat. “Boss” popping into his mind, before he remembers that there’s no more rank difference between them.

John doesn’t even ask him in. He just pulls Justin into his arms right there in the doorway, for the whole neighborhood to see, and Justin is suddenly reminded how big the older man is, dwarfing his 5’9 by several inches. He hugs Luther back right away, and they hold onto each other for an amazing length of time, the cool air rushing into the house from behind Justin. Without warning, his eyes start to burn, and his throat closes up. He presses his fingertips into Luther’s broad back, feeling the softness of the other man’s jumper, overwhelmed with a too many different emotions.

Fifteen months. He’s been waiting for this, for fifteen months. Not knowing when he would see Luther again, if he would see Luther again. He knew he missed him, but he didn’t know how much until now.

When Luther finally pulls away and looks at him again, Justin swallows and hopes to Christ that he doesn’t shed a tear, tries to smile at least a little bit to downplay his glistening eyes. Luther just looks happy, happier than Justin can remember ever seeing him.

“Come in,” Luther says, making room in the doorway.

Justin steps inside and collects himself, sniffing a bit and looking around at the foyer. The house is bright, open, and airy—white walls and blonde wood floors. It’s the most cheerful residence he’s seen Luther live in, from what he can tell.

“Alice is out,” Luther says, leading him toward the kitchen. “She wanted to give us some time alone, to catch up.”

Justin still can’t believe Alice Morgan is capable of courtesy and consideration, never mind that she’s Luther’s roommate. But he is grateful that she knew enough to be absent today.

He follows Luther into the kitchen and sits at the small dining table. It’s obvious that Luther and Alice just moved in after a year of travel: there are hardly any personal belongings in the house and only the most necessary furniture. The kitchen looks new and clean.  

“Can I get you a drink?” Luther says, opening up the refrigerator.

“A beer would be good,” Justin replies. “If you have any.”

Luther pulls two bottled beers out of the fridge and pops off the caps with a bottle opener, offering one to Justin. They drink in silence for a bit, and Justin realizes he has no idea where to even start talking to the other man. It’s surreal to be sitting here, in his kitchen, having a beer with him after more than a year without so much as a text or a postcard.  

“How are you?” Luther says, squinting at Justin from across the room. “Physically, I mean.”

Justin shrugs one shoulder. “I’m all right. Made a full recovery according to the doctor. Gained back most of the weight I lost when I was healing up. It seems like everything’s back to normal.”

“Good. That’s good.” Luther pauses, then looks up at Justin again. “And the job?”

Justin stares at him like an animal caught in the headlights, at first. He wonders if Alice Morgan counts mere conversation about his job as trying to tempt Luther back into it, then realizes even if she doesn’t, he has no interest in talking about it right now.

“It’s fine. The usual,” he says. “I’ve got a good team. Schenk and Benny are still there, which made the transition easier.”

Luther smiles a wistful kind of smile at the mention of his old colleagues.

“Does Schenk know you’re here?” Justin says, as soon as it occurs to him.

“No,” says Luther. “And I think I better keep it that way.”

Justin wants to ask why but doesn’t. “Where’ve you been?” he says instead.

Luther blows out a breath. “All over,” he replies. “Too many places to talk about in one sitting.”

“Did you have a good time, anyway?”

“Yeah. I did. It took a while to get used to being retired, after I left, but—I think the traveling helped. It made me realize that I hadn’t really done a lot of living, in my adult life. Just working.”

Luther stops and takes a pull on his beer.

Justin understands what he means—it was never lost on him, how a case consumed Luther, especially a good one—but he can’t help but feel a twinge of hurt at the implication that the time they spent together didn’t count as really living, in Luther’s mind. During those years, the heat of a big case, running at Luther’s side, was what made Justin feel most alive.

“How are you liking it?” Luther says. “Being top dog.”

“I don’t know that I am,” Justin replies. “I think that title goes to Schenk.”

“You’re the second highest rank in the unit, right after him, aren’t you? I’d say that makes you top dog where it counts, day to day.”

Justin still doesn’t think of himself as a leader, even if he’s gotten used to directing his sergeants and other colleagues in Serious and Serials. He’s never been a man interested in leading, regardless of his capabilities. He feels more comfortable when someone else is running the show, when he’s got somebody’s orders to fall back on, so much so that he wouldn’t mind a DCI coming onto the unit and bumping him down to third from the top. But Luther’s always been an alpha dog, a born leader who chafes against the restrictions put upon him by his superiors. The one thing John and Justin do have in common is their lack of desire for power. Luther always knew the difference between power and leadership, and chose to lead while downplaying the power differential between himself and his subordinates. It’s one reason why Justin always loved to follow him.

“You seeing anybody?” Luther says.

Justin pauses, as he finishes taking a drink and lowers his beer. “No,” he says. “Don’t have the time.”

Luther gives him a look. “I know what that means. Means you’re working too much. Take it from someone who knows, the job isn’t more important than love. So don’t pretend it is.”

Justin thinks about Luther’s ex-wife, Zoe, first. Then, about Alice Morgan.

“Are you together?” he says, before he can stop himself. “You and Alice?”

Luther barks a laugh. “Romantically? No.”

“You just spent an awfully long time traveling the world with her. Now you’ve set up house together. Her criminal history aside, she’s an attractive woman. I guess I find it a bit weird that you’re not a couple.”

Justin doesn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation, but it does, a little.

Luther doesn’t seem to care.

“Yeah, well,” he says. “It is a bit weird, my relationship with her. But it works for me, so I’ve decided not to analyze it.”

Justin picks up his beer again and finishes it. He decides he’s better off not analyzing Luther’s relationship with Alice Morgan either. He can already feel the implications it makes about who Luther is as a person, lingering in the back of his mind, and he doesn’t want to look at them any closer.

“So,” Justin says. “Now, what?”

Luther smiles at him.  

* * *

 

Alice’s feelings for John Luther are complicated, but she’s never been a simple person, after all. For all of her flirtation and loyalty, her willingness to risk herself for his sake, and the fact that she cares for him as deeply as she’s ever cared for anyone besides herself, she can’t say she’s in love with him. He was always right about her on that count: she isn’t capable of what other people call romantic love, as far as she knows. As for sex, well—she’s always had a healthy, if not cold-blooded, sexual appetite. She’s never understood the sentimentalizing of sex, and maybe that’s why she’s never been serious about bedding John Luther. She cares too much, to fuck him. He’s an attractive man, sure, but physical attractiveness has always been something clinical to Alice. She appraises men as potential sexual partners the way one would appraise racing horses: looking for physical superiority or handsomeness for the purpose of profitability and satisfying her ego. Sexual partners are little more than a means to a necessary, biological end for her. John Luther, on the other hand, is someone she has no desire to use and dispose of. She has no idea what she would say if he asked her seriously for sex, but thus far, he’s given no indication that he’s interested. That makes sense to her, given the women he’s been attracted to before. Alice is too much like him. John chooses women who can make him believe he’s someone else. Lucky for Alice. She’s pretty sure that she enjoys the flirting and unresolved, perhaps slightly manufactured, sexual tension between them much more than she would actual sex.  

It has occurred to Alice that it’s possible Luther will abandon their little domestic setup, their partnership, if he gets involved with another woman romantically. She doesn’t begrudge him his sexual activities outside their friendship, but she wouldn’t be happy if he suddenly decided to be self-deceptive again and pair off with an ordinary woman to live a very ordinary, boring life. He gives her the impression that he’s done with all that, at least until further notice, but Alice would feel better if she had more certainty that John’s married days are behind him.

Sitting in the study at home, glass of white wine in hand, she peruses Justin Ripley’s file and schemes. She, of course, had to gather information on DI Ripley, previously DS Ripley, once she realized that he was important to John and one of the reasons he took so long to retire from the police force. It was easy enough to get a copy of his personnel file, and the rest, the personal stuff, she collected gradually from his unsuspecting friends and family. What fascinates Alice is how perfectly normal and average Ripley is. Much like the women Luther chose for lovers, Ripley is nothing like him, beyond their shared passion for policing. In Alice’s opinion, Luther has more natural talent for it than Ripley, but Ripley has always been a hard worker and a good student of his profession, which makes him almost as good as Luther now but not quite.

Justin Ripley is not extraordinarily intelligent, good-looking, talented, or otherwise impressive. What sets him apart is his character, and that must be why Luther took to him, apart from Ripley’s obvious hero worship and undying devotion to Luther as his leader. Ripley’s integrity and ethical code has only ever been compromised out of loyalty to John, and even then, he always felt conflicted, guilty, obliged to “make it right.” He’s a better man than John Luther, morally speaking, but also far less interesting.  

Alice is delighted by the puzzle that John is: a man who simultaneously cares for someone like her and for someone like Ripley. On the surface, it doesn’t make sense, but then, Luther isn’t a simple person either. 

She looks down at a photo of Ripley, taken by a private investigator around two years ago, and smiles. She understands him well enough to know that there’s potential here, between him and John. Ripley can help Alice get what she wants. He doesn’t know it, but he doesn’t have to.


End file.
